


The World Below

by HerdOfTurtles



Series: My sad attempt at whumptober 2020 [6]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Flashbacks, Gen, Historical Hetalia, Mentioned France (Hetalia), Suicidal Thoughts, Temporary Character Death, Trench Warfare, Whumptober 2020, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:13:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26862685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HerdOfTurtles/pseuds/HerdOfTurtles
Summary: In the trenches, the line between the living and dead is a thin and fragile thread.Written for Whumptober 2020, prompt: "please, stop"
Relationships: England & France (Hetalia)
Series: My sad attempt at whumptober 2020 [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1949041
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	The World Below

**Author's Note:**

> Please mind the tags! WW1 was a very dark time in human history, and didn't happen that long ago.

England watched the fog dreary clouds roll overhead. It was grey. Dull. Mud stuck to every surface, caked every boot, cloth, and face. Unrecognisably human, unrecognisably alive. The stiff mucked wood pressed firm against him and the pressure in his chest felt like the weight of rot and death. That was also grey... or maybe it was red. It was less dull, though. Despite it all he couldn't gripe... the rotting plank was the only thing between him and the hungry earth.

To his left was a man who couldn't tell what day it was, or if time had stopped long before. He himself wouldn't do better. He could only feel the throbbing in his head and thumping of his heart. Hollowness swallowed everything else up.

But the grey wasn't as bad as the migraines. Still, with how economically static he was lately, it would only get worse. France had been suffering from persistent migraines in the last four years, but not like this.

France was ten times worse and ten days far gone.

The memory, faded like a crumpled parchment unfolded itself for him with nothing but vast, dull, rusted imagery, fleeting as faith and lasting as vapor. He could recall every moment, but nothing meant anything.

_with your ability, your divine gift, it is only natural…”_

_He couldn't feel it, but it was cold. He knew it was. It always felt numb below the ground. England did his best not to shiver anyway, so he nodded and did his best, but his best wouldn't keep him from breaking his silent word. He couldn't feel the cold but he knew it was there and his body knew it was there and so it also came to be that his mind, fenced off from feeling, had no choice but to follow, dragging its heels into the imaginary ground._

_"Very good sir.”_

_He nodded again, but he didn't understand why it was good. He was having trouble understanding things lately. He didn't think this was good for him. For any of them._

_There was a pause, one invoked by the frown on England's face, and it made him feel like he had a fraction of control for the first time since the current world met the true darkness of living again. But the speaking continued, and he lost his grip on it that second._

_"We can overcome Ypres in no time with that divine ability. We will have you there in no less than time allows.”_

_When did he lose his sense of wonder? Sometime in the 19th century or 20th? Or was it after he found the maps and sea didn't extend forever and the same problems he ran from were waiting patiently on the other side for him to arrive?_

_"I see..." He said, less reluctant, no more assured._

_This is necessary, sir. You realise that?”_

_"Of course.”_

_But the only thing he could think was, 'what else had been done in the name of necessity?’_

_It wasn't until weeks later that he saw the true colours of death, worse than he'd ever seen before. It was cold down there-- there, where the very land was a nameless grave. Where the frost, the buried shells of men, the yellowed sick horizon all hung with death's solemn air._

_He was there in time to see France die. He was there in time to see the men all scrambling into the arms of death rather than away and he found he could imagine no greater darkness in the twisted nature of the crumbling world._

_He vividly remembered France, the one he wished cruel fate upon thousands of times before, as the last flame of light faded from that already distant gaze and two words fell from his mouth. Two, distorted, tired words from bubbling red lips._

_’please, stop…’_

It had only been days, and England was still alive by some cruel miracle of the twisted world. France had escaped a short time, but like all of his kind, France would be dragged back into life to live it all again. England couldn't help but envy the man to his left. The one that would never wake back up into the nightmare.

**Author's Note:**

> The link below will take you to a maps website if you desire to look at the British World War 1 trench maps:  
> https://maps.nls.uk/ww1/trenches/info1.html
> 
> This one will take you to an archive of poetry from World War 1. I haven't read all of these listed, but I highly recommend clicking through a few of these. Wilfred Owen is perhaps the most famous poet of the war, so he may deserve a google search of his own.  
> https://www.poetryfoundation.org/articles/70139/the-poetry-of-world-war-i
> 
> This is one of my favourite history websites, and the link will take you to a page on trench warfare.  
> http://www.localhistories.org/first.html


End file.
